The Observer
by MixedMedia
Summary: Evie's mum has left her with one name: Sherlock Holmes. But can he and John solve the puzzle before powerful enemies, intent on silencing Evie and the information she holds, catch up with them? No slash. I own nothing except Evie.
1. What the Hell happened to Mum?

_ **Hi again everybody. Guess who's back? =D**_

_**I apologise for the long hiatus, but my creative muse kind of abandoned me. Now I have exams (convenient, huh) it's back and kicking me. **_

_**Aaaanyway, this will be updated as and when...I'm still kinda planning it out a bit. Never fear, it will be done. Just don't expect very regular updates. **_

_**As ever, any (constrictive) feedback is more then welcome. **_

_**I own nothing here except the plot and Evelyn Adler (my own very lovely lady). Aaaaand...yeah. Enjoy =)**_

* * *

_How do I start? _

_ That's the problem with trying to record life-changing experiences on paper, the words never come out right, but I'll do my best. _

_ Okay, here we go. My name is Evelyn Adler, but you can call me Evie. I'm 13 years old. This is the story of me and a weird, if wonderful man. My father, Sherlock Holmes. _

* * *

It's not uncommon for the note on our kitchen fridge to read, _Gone to work, see you tonight_ or similar. Mum's a lawyer, she works long hours. I got used to it.

It is uncommon for it to read _Evie, I have to go away for a very long time. I can't explain on paper, but go to this address and ask for Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street, London. _

It ended, chillingly, with, _Never forget how much I love you. Mum x_

For a long time, I stared at it, my wet hair dripping down my pyjamas, my brain working at a hundred miles per hour. _It can't be a work thing, or she'd have said before. She's not run away with anyone, I'd know – she'd smell different. She wouldn't just up and leave for no reason. So she's running from something…_

_ Or someone._

_ This is not happening. _"Mum! Mum, where are you?" I snatched the note off the fridge and darted upstairs. The study was empty. Her bedroom was empty, the bed not slept in. I opened the wardrobe. Most of her clothes were gone. So was her purse and passport from the bedside drawer.

Fear uncurled in my stomach. Who would possibly want to harm my mother? Irene Adler, senior partner at Adler and Norton Solicitors, Northwest London. Works nine till five, unmarried, one daughter. Ordinary as a pigeon. Leaving notes and running for her life? Something was most definitely not right. "MUM!" I cried.

It echoed through the empty house.

I took a deep breath. _Okay Evie. Sit down and evaluate. _ A trick I used to keep my cool in hairy situations.

The note had clearly been written in a rush last night, or very early this morning when I was in bed. The fact that Mum hadn't told me anything meant that I was also in danger and she had most likely wanted to keep me safe. She would be moving a lot, since her passport was gone, and also because she hadn't wanted to take me with her. But what had she done to warrant this? She owned a law firm, for Chrissakes, she wasn't a Mafia boss.

And then there was the address. _221B Baker Street._ And a name. _Sherlock Holmes._ It rang a bell – albeit a faint bell. I flipped the note over. _Hold on…_

There was some kind of code on the back. 101294.

* * *

My mum's law partner, Godfrey Norton, picked up on the third ring. _"Rene? Is that you?"_

"No, it's me, Evelyn. Has she said anything to you about trips lately?"

"_Erm…" _There was a shuffling sound as he flipped through his diary. _"No, nothing scheduled, why?"_

"Oh, nothing…but she wasn't here when I got up this morning and I thought maybe she'd…I dunno, been called off somewhere."

"_Not as far as I know sweetie. Have you tried phoning her?"_

"It was turned off." Actually, it was still in the drawer – I rang it, it went off. The final proof.

"_Ah well." _There was a pause. _" It's probably some kind of family thing, nothing to worry about. Try again later."_

"Yeah, I will…" There was something off about this, I wasn't sure what.

"_You sure you're okay sweetheart?"_

_Don't call me sweetheart. _"I'm fine. Just a bit concerned, you know."

"_She'll turn up, Evie, don't you fret. Look, I've got to go. Call me later if you don't hear from her."  
_"I will. Bye." I hung up the phone.

Strange codes. Goodbye notes on kitchen fridges and Godfrey Norton knew something, I was sure of it.

I was 13 years old, I was alone, and something was brewing. I looked at the note again. _Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street. Maybe he'll have some answers. _

* * *

_"Sherlock? Sherlock! Locky!"_

_The rain pattered on the fresh autumn fall leaves, deep red beneath the deep grey storm clouds. It had begun slowly, but was developing into a torrent. Thunder rumbled over Mycroft's damp, rather gingery curls as he peered into the expansive garden, but there was no sign of the small boy who had gone out three hours earlier and had not yet returned._

_"Master Mycroft!" A manservant emerged from the house holding a large umbrella. "You really must come inside and let us look for Master Sherlock!"_

_Mycroft pretended not to hear him and ventured further into the downpour, searching for a mop of black curls in the steady grey stream._

_Something moved by the shrubbery – there! A dejected, soaked little boy came trudging out from under an enormous rhododendron. Mycroft ran down to meet him._

_"Sherlock, where on earth have you been?"_

_The five year old glared at him. "The rain ruined everything. I was watching the beetles to see what they did in sun in con…con…"_

_"Contrast?"_

_"Contrast to shade. But then it rained and they were all washed away." Sherlock's silver-green eyes were dark with annoyance, as if this was somehow Mycroft's fault. He couldn't help but chuckle at the way the toddler expected him to sort everything out for him, the weather included._

_"Maybe you can try again tomorrow. Come inside now, Ruth is getting worried."_

_Sherlock crossed his arms. "It was important."_

_"It will be just as important in the morning. C…come on, I'll ask her to make hot chocolate."_

_The boy visibly brightened. "With cream and marshmallows?"_

_"And digestive b..b..biscuit crumbs." Mycroft's teeth began to chatter in his numbed face. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the moisture that clung to his clothes, his hair, his long eyelashes. But he could see his older brother shivering, and reached up and took his hand._

_"Come on Crofty. Let's go get hot chocolate."_


	2. 221B Baker Street

**_Hey everybodys peeps, and especially to everyone who has read/reviewed or faved this story so far. Hope it lives up to your expectations. I'm enjoying becing back and writing fanfiction. _**

**_Anyway, I'll stop rattling and let you read. Muchos Loveosxxxx_**

* * *

_I've lived in London my whole life, and I've always hated tube trains._

With nothing but my Oystercard, purse and Mum's note shoved into my pocket, I caught the underground to Baker Street station. It was hot, and crammed with folk wending their way to work. I hate the underground, it's like playing sardines, but with people. I felt cramped and dirty, which only served to add to my worry and confusion. It was no surprise, therefore, that I reached Baker Street in a bad mood.

221B was in the middle of the terrace, a three storey building with a café on the ground floor known as 'Speedys'.' It was handsome, if a little imposing. _And probably an extortionate price - prime location, one squashed flat. And Sherlock Holmes lives here?_

A net curtain twitched on the second floor. I glanced up, but couldn't see anybody.

I debated throwing the towel in and just calling the police. Who would then call social services because I was underage.

I weighed my options and rapped on the doorknocker.

It was opened by a motherly looking lady in a rather ugly purple dress and apron. "Hello dear, anything wrong?"

_Don't call me dear._ I bit back the retort. "I, um…I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?"

She almost looked sad. "Oh dear…you are young to be a client. I swear they're getting younger…come on up with me, I'll see if they're in. Not that they ever tell me, I'm the landlady, not their housekeeper…"

_Client? Oh God, he's not a pimp, is he?_

Mum's voice whispered in my ear. _Bite the bullet, Evelyn. This won't do itself._ The constant mantra that got me through my homework, past the bullies, and out of bed every morning. I stepped inside after the mother hen-like landlady.

* * *

We passed into a narrow hall, papered in a horrible sort of green, up 17 thinly carpeted stairs, and onto an upper landing. The sound of a violin came wailing cheerfully through the door. Whoever was playing wasn't half bad.

"Just in here, dearie." The 'landlady' knocked on the wooden door. "Oo-oo! Sherlock!" The violin player ignored her, but the door was opened by a stocky man with light brownish-blonde hair. An army doctor, going by his rather severe haircut, straight backed stance and the mug of tea bearing the medical caduceus he held in his hand.

He looked harried. "Sorry, I was just on my way out, he won't shut up…hullo," he said, noticing me, standing a little in shadow. "Here to see Sherlock?"

"Er…yeah…I take it you're not him…"

"Uh, nope, I'm his…flatmate. Sherlock!" He called over his shoulder.

Abruptly, the violin cut off. "Hopeless!" There was a clatter as something fell over. The Ex-Army Doctor rolled his eyes and ushered me inside.

Nervously (and I'm never nervous, so this freaked me out as much as anything else had), I stepped into a surprisingly spacious living room, cluttered with various books and papers, two armchairs, a sofa and…

_That's a skull. That's a flipping human skull, on his mantelpiece._

The room was occupied by one other figure. A tall, rake thin young man with curly black hair, dressed only in pyjamas and a blue silk dressing gown. By process of simple observation, this must be Sherlock Holmes.

He was pacing, violin in hand, ignoring the music and stand on the floor, that he'd clearly just knocked over in frustration. I wondered if he was a professional concert violinist…_With clients, and a skull on the mantelpiece? Don't be daft, girl. More likely an amateur detective of some kind. But how does mum know him?_

He never even glanced at me. "Got an appointment?"

"Should I?" I retorted.

Then his grey-blue-green eyes rose to meet my brown. His gaze raked up and down me, analysing me. I glared back, resenting the intrusion.

"I don't have time to solve trite schoolgirl issues, I'm the middle of a very important case of kidnapping. Mrs Hudson will show you out, she may even give you tea and sympathy on the way, good morning."

Mrs Hudson's mutter of, "I'm not your housekeeper" went straight over my head. I reached for the paper in my hoodie pocket. "It's not a schoolgirl issue. It's…"

"Oh please, you're 13 years old, you've lived in London your whole life, sheltered lifestyle and above average IQ, what kind of trouble could you get into that would require my help to get out of? Nope, sorry, more interesting cases to solve. You're perfectly capable of figuring out whatever it is on your own, stop wasting my time."

"Sherlock…" said the doctor warningly, but it was too late. Mum always told me I have the temper of a bear with a headache. Every bit of pain, and worry, and stress and fright finally overtook me at his casual blow off, and I reached out and grabbed his arm as he turned away.

"Listen you, I have been through the mill and back today, and it's not even 11am. My mum skipped town this morning and left me with nothing but your name. I don't know who the hell you think you are, you arrogant twerp, or why my mum sent me to you, but something is going on, and you're the only lead I have."

He looked at me again, the angle of his head casting shadows beneath his high cheekbones. If there was a flash of interest in his eyes, I couldn't see it.

"You know what? I don't know who you are and frankly, I don't care. If you're not interested, then fine. Clearly mum was wrong about your capacity to help me. I'll just go home, and you can sit here with your army doctor" – someone by the door spluttered. I was right then – "and your 'landlady,' and forget this ever happened. And if you do, and me and my mum turn up dead or something, I hope you're damn proud of yourself!"

* * *

Not bothering to wait for a reply, I wheeled and shoved past the person gawping in the doorway, banging downstairs. At the bottom, I stopped and tried to collect myself, swallowing the tears that threatened to prick my eyes. Evie Adler doesn't cry. Evie Adler gets over herself and moves on. Even when the girls at school tease her for wearing converse, and call her 'Evil' Evie because she once told one of them to go die in pain. _So much for Sherlock Holmes. Now I'll never find Mum. We're both screwed._

_Evaluate, Evie. You don't know you're going to wind up dead. _

But when I considered the strange behaviour of Godfrey, the missing passport and the abandoned phone, the strange code on the back of the note…it didn't take a genius to work out that I had been thrown into the middle of something big. And nasty. And I had nobody on my side.

"You mustn't mind him," came a friendly voice at my elbow. I yelped in shock and jumped back.

"Oh, it's only me, love," said Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock can have that effect, but he means well."

"Oh, really?" I muttered sarcastically. "Who even is he? Some kind of detective? Cause he's not going to get much business with that kind of attitude."

She looked at me sympathetically, and I wanted to throttle her. "Come and have a cup of tea. I've baked some scones as well."

She had me at 'cup of tea.'

* * *

"I remember when my dad left," said the landlady as the kettle boiled. "Broke my mother's heart. We never saw him again. I never knew what happened to him…"

I let her rattle wash over my head, trying not to listen. I knew she meant well, but it wasn't working.

"What did your mum say? Just to find Sherlock?" She set a steaming mug of tea in front of me.

"I think it's more complicated than that." I mumbled. "She ran away, she wasn't kidnapped. Her law partner definitely knows something. And she left me this funny code…on the back of the note."

"Oh, Sherlock loves codes. He'll sort it out for you."

I snorted. "After that display of indifference? I'll sort it out for myself. I just…" I concentrated on the swirling brown depths, unable to meet her motherly gaze on the other side of the table. "I just don't know where to start."

"At the line of least resistance."

I whipped around at the sound of the low, purring voice in the door. Holmes stood just inside it.

We stared at each other.

"Show me her note," he said, finally.

* * *

_Sherlock was sitting in the library, thoroughly engaged in a book about chemical discoveries in the 19th century when he was disturbed by Mycroft._

_"Sherlock? They're leaving if you want to say goodbye."_

_"Why would I want to say 'goodbye', when they're hardly around to say 'hello' to?" replied the ten-year old without glancing up, lazily turning a page, his raven curls ruffled in the light streaming through the window behind him._

_"Because they won't be back for a long time? Because you're their son?"_

_"Mycroft, don't be so dense." Finally, grey-blue eyes looked up. "You're the credit. The golden older son who will inherit all the estate. I'm just 'the slightly odd younger brother,' as Father said at the last family gathering."_

_"You had left a dead bird in your desk drawer for the maid to find two days previously."_

_"Experiment in the type of flies it attracted. Hardly my fault I'm curious. As I recall, you encouraged it when I was younger."_

_"Sherlock…"_

_"She shouldn't have been poking in there anyway." The boy's indignation was clear in his tone. No remorse, only annoyance that his experiment had been disturbed._

_Mycroft tried a different tack. "I'm sure they're going to miss you. And you will too, despite all you've said. Come and say goodbye."_

_"I don't see that it matter too much. They're the ones flying away to random destinations around the globe every other month. It's not like the place will be much different." He went back to reading._

_"Sherlock…"_

_"Have fun pining over Mummy and Daddy, Mycroft. I'm staying right here."_

_Mycroft gave up and returned to the entrance hall._

_He didn't have to say anything. It was written in the coldness of his father's face, and the slight tear in his mother's eye. Without a word, they turned away and went down the stairs to the waiting car. Mycroft watched them go silently._

_In the library, Sherlock turned the pages angrily, ignoring the traitorous tear that slid down one cheek._

* * *

**_Reviewers get brownies...I just made them =D_**


	3. Sherlock Holmes, Irritating Detective

**_Ay ay people. I apologise for the slight hiatus there, but realisation that I had done no work for my exams kinda kicked me in the face and then I kinda killed myself trying to get some of it done. And I'm only in first year of uni, it gets a damn sight worse next year._**

**_Anyway, enough ranting. A big shout out to everyone showing love for this story - alerts/faves and reviews are what keep me going. You are all beautiful people. Here, have some cake (it's my best friend's birthday, he's 22 and complaining about being ancient). _**

**_Here, have another chapter as well. Thoughts and constructive criticism are love =D_**

**_I own nothing, as per...I'm also unbetaed, so any mistakes are purely mine._**

* * *

_Everything was moving so fast, I hardly knew if I was coming or going. Oddly enough, it was when I knew nothing of what had happened to her, that I wanted Mum the most._

_Instead, all I had was a madman in a dressing gown._

_Better than nothing I guess._

I handed Sherlock Holmes the note. He joined us at the table and skimmed over it briefly. "Written in a rush…understandable…using an expensive fountain pen on heavy legal paper. A last-minute thing then…" He spoke quietly to himself, clearly forgetting about the other people in the room. In my peripheral vision I noticed Mrs Hudson slip out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the strange man. I took the opportunity to have a good look at him.

Thin, almost corpse pale. High cheekbones and eyes of an unidentifiable colour. Hair, semi-unwashed, in disarray. A man who lived for his work, then, forgoing washing at least, and almost certainly food if his unnatural thinness was anything to go by. His face as he poured over Mum's note, was closed, so focused on his task that it took up all his attention. An observer, then, like me. There was something so familiar about him as well. Something I couldn't put my finger on. Like his name, he rang a bell, very faintly, in the back of my mind. I knew it would niggle at me until I solved it, so I imagined it in a box and put a lid on it. _I'll deal with you later_ I promised it.

He turned it over and looked at the mysterious code. I could see the cogs turning behind his forehead.

"Is there anything significant about this date?" he asked after a few moments.

"Is there…what?" I was jolted from my thoughts in surprise.

He adopted a look of what I can only describe as '_I'm surrounded by idiots.' _"It's a date. Fairly simple, she's just removed the spaces so it isn't obvious." He removed a pencil from his pocket and made a few lines on the note. He pushed it across the table at me.

_10/12/94_

"No, I don't think so."

"Mm." He fell silent. "Come upstairs, Mrs Hudson does get so irritable when her space gets crowded. Tell me everything there."

* * *

And so it was that I wound up in the living room of the squashed flat, sipping a cup of tea and telling two strange men what had happened this morning, everything from the note, to the phone, to Godfrey's blatant lying.

"Something's going on. What I don't know, but my Mum's caught in the middle of it. And now so am I…" I stared into the fire. I like fire. It's beautiful, but deadly, and it doesn't care about the problems of those that use it.

"Mm." Holmes said again. He was also staring into the distance, and I suddenly felt a flash of annoyance. "Have you been listening to a word I've just said?"

He didn't answer. Fortunately the Army Doctor – John Watson – stepped in before I could start berating him again.

"Let him think. I get that you're worried but we won't get there any faster by shouting at him."

I slumped back into the chair. I still couldn't believe this man was my only lead. Despite his obvious capabilities, I had my doubts. Doubts over his resolve, his focus, certainly his stability. And all the time I was acutely aware that time was ticking away. The sooner I found out what was going on, the better. Unsolved mysteries bugged me, and this one was personal.

He made me jump when he bounded up off his grey leather chair and picked up his violin once more. Dr Watson sighed in resignation. "Come on, let's leave him to it."

* * *

The sweet tones of 'Pachelbel's Canon' drifted down the stairs and into Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Clearly she was well used to all this.

"What are we going to do about you then?" she asked, and she served us her home-baked scones. They were really rather good.

_She means you, Evelyn_. "Um…I dunno…I hadn't really thought…go home I guess."

The doctor shook his head. "That's too risky. If there's people after your mother, that's the first place they'll look."

"Well where do you suggest I go, sleep under Vauxhall Arches?"

"Do you have any other relatives?"

"Not within 50 miles of London. My Gran and Granddad live in Sussex, but we haven't seen them in years." I cast my eyes down as I recalled the last time we had. I'd been eight. Mum had attempted a reconciliation with them. Deeply religious and very old fashioned, they had still not forgiven her for falling pregnant with me 'Out of wedlock' – I think that was the phrase they used. "They won't even see me."

I refused to look up and see the sadness and pity in their eyes. _Don't pity me. I don't care…_

"Well then. You'll have to stay here."

_What._

"Of course, dear. You can have the couch in my flat, or the one upstairs if Sherlock doesn't mind."

"Oh…come on, I can't. I have school on Monday, and someone's gotta keep an eye on the house and answer the phone and everything. Anyway…" I glanced upwards to where the music played on. "He gets on my nerves."

"Evie, you're underage. If they find out your mother's gone missing and you have no relatives willing to take care of you, they'll put you into foster care."

I shuddered at the idea. Shoved into a children's home with people I didn't know, that would pick fights with me every other week. There were a couple like that at my school. I can handle myself in a fight, but not against two bruisers a head taller than me.

_And the difference here is…? _

I looked at Mrs Hudson. She felt like the grandmother I never had. And the doctor had a very open countenance, and had been nothing but nice to me. "But Sherlock…"

"I'll deal with Sherlock." Doctor Watson looked at me levelly.

_Either way I'll be stuck with strangers _I thought. _I may as well be stuck with strangers that are trying to help me. _

I closed my eyes and nodded.

* * *

_Only Mycroft, knowing his brother so well, noticed the twelve-year-old loitering halfway up the stairs as he directed the staff packing the car with his things. With one last glance at the two men hauling a large crate of books down the front steps of the mansion, the large eighteen-year-old climbed up to his level. "Sherlock?"_

_The boy looked up at him accusingly. "Why do you have to leave as well?"_

_Mycroft sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Because I have to. If I'm ever to take a place in government, I need…more than I have here."_

_The boy looked at his shoes. "Just because you have to do it doesn't mean that you should."_

_He couldn't say anything to that. Just, "I' m sorry, brother."_

_Sherlock said nothing, his youthful face already closed off. Mycroft continued. "One day, you'll understand that I have to lead my own life, and you have to lead yours. Besides," He flashed his brother a conspiratorial grin. "Uncle Isaiah is always interested in your latest experiment."_

_Sherlock brightened a little. "He's coming?"_

_"And Auntie Berry. They agreed to look after you while I'm away. Isaiah will conduct his business from the house."_

_This time, a ghost of a smile flitted across the boy's serious visage._

_"Master Mycroft?" said the butler tentatively. "We're ready for you."_

_Mycroft took one last look at his brother, before placing a hand on his head. "I'll stay in touch, I promise. Be good."_

_He turned and moved towards the door._

_Sherlock, filled suddenly with a sense of loneliness, considered chasing him, begging him not to go…but then he was out of the door and gone_.


	4. The First Answer

**_Hello once again faithful readers, and those who have just joined us. Here, have a new chapter. Things may start picking up a little after this , since I have only the roughest of rough outlines for this story, and it's kind of shaping itself - under supervision, obviously. I'll shut up now and let you get on with it. Reviews are love!_**

**_Disclaimer: Paws off Evie, she's mine, the rest belong to ACD and the Moftiss._**

* * *

_The fact that there were parts of Sherlock's character that were so similar to mine ought to have been a bit of a heads-up I guess. _

_Then again it was only a couple of days ago I realised I have his nose. Of all the things…_

Letting Dr Watson ("Call me John") into my house felt very strange. I don't exactly have many friends to bring home. Sam (my best friend) and I hang around at the local park, or more often, his house. If Mum goes out with Godfrey or one of her other friends it's usually to a restaurant. It's been a bit of a comfort blanket – my home, my mum's home, untouched by anyone else. Unfortunately, the good doctor had insisted on coming back with me to retrieve some stuff. Y'know…my socks, my schoolbooks, my underwear.

I was starting to think that John Watson was either incredibly paranoid or just a general whack-job, since I'd noticed the bulge in his jacket which could only have been his British Army handgun. Like the naïve teenager that I was, I didn't think anyone would bother trying to attack me in my own home. I leant towards whack-job – he was best friends with Holmes after all. But there was something quite steady in his stance, and something told me I could rely on him.

Everything about the place was so…normal. Nothing had been moved, nobody had been in here. It was almost disorientating, like I'd half expected my house to be turned on its head along with the rest of my life.

But it wasn't. Just way too quiet.

I tried not to let it get to me as I shovelled some things into a suitcase.

"How did you know about me?" John remarked from the door.

"What do you mean?"

"You mentioned I was an army doctor while you were shouting at Sherlock. How did you know?"

_Oh, that_. "Haircut, stance, mug. Simple enough."

I could almost hear him blinking. "You're not…no, forget that."

"What?" I turned to look at him. He had stopped leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom and was staring at me.

"Just…that's more or less how Sherlock knew. The first time I ever saw him, he knew I was an army doctor just home from Afghanistan. Where did you learn how to do that?"

"I didn't," I replied returning to squashing my science textbook into the small case. "It's not something I do consciously. I just notice things, it's no big deal."

"Could almost be related to him," I heard him mutter. I ignored him. _Related to Sherlock? God forbid._

* * *

As an afterthought, I ducked into Mum's room to grab her phone and passport, just in case. I was coming out when something caught my eye. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Mum's room and mine are on two sides of a corner, but just beside my room is a small flight of stairs that leads up to the attic. You wouldn't think to look up at it normally. The light wasn't on so the door was in shadow, but I could tell it was ajar. Mostly because the doorknob appeared to be missing, the frame splintered and there was a stripe of much more complete blackness running down one edge. It sent a small chill down my spine.

"Dr Wats…John?"

He appeared beside me. "What is it?"

"Somebody's been in the attic." I pointed at the ruined door.

We stood there together for a moment or so.

"What's up there?" John asked eventually.

"Not much. Just old papers, books, Mum's diaries from when she was…younger…" I trailed off. "You think there might have been something incriminating up there."

"Well they must be looking for something." John drew his gun from his jacket and went up the stairs first. He fumbled a little for the light switch.

When it blinked into life, I saw the kind of mess I'd expected the whole house to be in. Boxes of books were broken on the floor, their contents scattered and shredded. A couple of old vases had been smashed, along with most of the old pictures Mum had taken down last year and intended to sell. They had been ripped from their frames, some torn to pieces. My childhood stuffed toys spilled their innards across the floorboards. Mum's old diaries had been knocked out of their boxes.

* * *

We entered once John had checked the intruders weren't still here. But they were most likely long gone. Still, he insisted on checking thoroughly while I stood in the ruins of a lot of my memories and tried not to panic. Whoever had been looking…they had looked hard.

I picked a few of Mum's diaries up. _1983…1990…1992…_There weren't any missing that I could see, but a lot of the later ones had met the same fate as the books. I blew a bit of dust from one. _1994_.

_Wait a sec, Evie._

_10/12/94_. The strange date on Mum's note. _Could it be…?_

I realised my hands were shaking as I turned to the right page. _Calm down, girl. _But this wasn't just me being nosy. This could be a major clue.

There is was. My eyes widened as I began reading Mum's spidery scrawl.

_I can't tell, but I think I just made a huge mistake. I can't tell Vi, or Berry, or anyone, so I'll write it here and try and make some sense out of it._

_See, all I wanted to do was return that book I borrowed from Joseph the other day, so I went up to his college halls. He wasn't in, but his neighbour was. I didn't realise he was Sherlock Holmes. _

I gasped. _So that's how she knows him!_

"What is it?" asked John, but I tuned him out and kept reading.

_I think the guy was tripping out. I mean he seems so aloof normally, always tucked away in the corner of the library with these great big textbooks. I don't even know what he studies. But last night he was…different, that's the only word for it. Looser, unfocused. _

"_Did you know?" he said, "that the only job of male bees is to mate with the queen, and those that do die in the act?"_

_Well what on earth do you say to that? I think I said something like. "No, but I'm looking for Joseph…I'm bringing his book back…"_

"_They're all out," he said, with a winning smile. I didn't know he could smile like that. It made me weak at the knees. "It's just you and me, sister."_

_And then he reached out and took my hand, and pulled me in, and that was pretty much when I stopped thinking. Christ, this is bad – I know I have a crush on the boy, but I was never going to act on it. He doesn't even know my name and has probably forgotten I even exist since I crept out while he was still asleep. High as a goddamn kite, as my dad used to say. And I still went and had sex with him. _

_What on earth do I do now?_

* * *

The next entry was made six weeks later. It was short and to the point.

_The line on the test was blue, and there's only one person the father could be. I am in such deep shit._

"Evie?" asked John, but I still wasn't listening. I was adding up dates in my head, putting two and two together...My birthday is in mid-August, I'm the youngest in my year. From December to August is nine months exactly, and it didn't take a genius to work out what Mum was trying to tell me. Why she had sent me to Sherlock Holmes.

_You could be related to him,_ John had said.

_Well doctor, turn out I am. Oh crap._

* * *

_Sherlock slung his leather satchel over his shoulder as he exited the library and reached into his pocket for the keys to his bicycle lock. The spring sun shone weakly down from between fluffy cumulus clouds. **Formed by thermal updrafts present above towns and cities**, he noted absently. He took no notice of the boys and girls wearing the uniform of their exclusive boarding school packing around him, keen to get home for the weekend. They took no notice of the skinny fifteen-year-old unlocking his bike for the trip back to the campus dorms. Sherlock had timed his exit very carefully. They should be almost deserted by now._

_Shoscombe Place Private Boarding School was situated on expansive grounds in the Hertfordshire countryside. They had a fully equipped sports hall and tech labs, huge library and single, lockable rooms for students in year 10 or above. Sherlock cared little for the sports facilities, despite being an excellent kick-boxer, but he did care for the chemistry labs and especially for the library, spending the chief amount of his time there rather than mingling with the general student population. Not that anyone noticed his absence – they were all far too busy with their own boring little lives. Sherlock tuned them out, unless, of course, he needed them for something._

_The teachers were the same. Sherlock, who had been home tutored by first his brother, then his Uncle Isaiah, couldn't understand why they wanted their students to learn things, but not so many things that they would surpass them. He had merely raised the point that the interpretation set down by the English teacher was not the one intended by Eliot – in fact, it was pure nonsense – and he couldn't see why he and his classmates should be forced to learn what was in essence the wrong information. He had expected at least a discussion, if not praise – instead he had been told to sit down and shut up. "When you have a degree and twenty years teaching behind you, Mr Holmes, we'll see what your interpretation is then."_

_Sherlock's straight A*s meant nothing when it came to the iron-clad opinion of the school and its teachers._

_The Year 10 dormitories were about a fifteen-minute walk away from the main campus. Sherlock and his bicycle made it there in five. He had timed it perfectly – everybody bar about five students had already gone home._

_Unfortunately, one of those five students was George 'Grimy' Roylott. Tiny IQ and the build and grace of a drunk bear. Slightly perverse relationship with a Year 7, who had an intellect about as long as her skirt, though, of course, nobody knew about that. "Well, well, well. Looks like the fag's emerged from the swamp."_

_Sherlock ignored him as he put the kettle on in the shared kitchen for a cup of coffee. Roylott had held a grudge against Sherlock ever since he had proved to the Head of House that it was him that spiked the punch with vodka at the last end-of-year ball – obvious from the smell of his fingers, made more obvious by the large (empty) bottle found in his room, plus the receipt. He had gotten off scot-free however (obviously – his father was a governor), and had set about making Sherlock's life hell. Poorly, true…but he was very annoying. And very stubborn. Sherlock's refusal to rise to the bait only seems to incense him more. **So maybe he's just stupid**._

_"Where've you been this time, Holmes? Shacked up in a corner with some piece of ass?"_

_**So crude. And unoriginal. And he's smoking behind the bike sheds again**. He made no remark._

_"I heard you've been running…experiments. Up in the labs." Roylott's voice dropped and deepened to a more threatening level. "Experiments on dead things. I heard you kill them yourself."_

_Sherlock allowed no emotion to show on his face, to betray the sudden, cold truth of the bully's words._

_His next words are a hiss._

_"Psycho. Freak."_

_Sherlock launched at him._

_It was the first time he was ever called a freak, but the word would haunt him for fifteen long years._

* * *

**_I got the fact about the bees from .com/hub/Fifty-Interesting-and-Obscure-Facts, just FYI…_**

**_Whaddya think? Whaddya not think? Tell meeee….I won't eat you =D_**


	5. My Brilliant Chicken Impression

**_Wow, that took waaaaaay longer than I was expecting. Sorry about the wait guys, but I had a bout of depression that decided it was going to repeatedly kick me in the face for about a week, and then somebody sprung a language oral exam on me. And it only gets worse from here. I have seven Uni exams this semseter, so like I said, don't expect anything like regular updates. But with any luck, I'll be able to get a lot of this planned out properly rather than making it up as I go. _**

**_Huge amounts of love and banana cake go out to everybody reading, reviewing, faving and alerting this story, it means one helluva lot to a struggling (fan)artist like me._**

**_While I'm here and rambling, is everybody enjoying the 'Sherlock growing up POV' at the end of every chapter? It's really just kinda my headcanon of how Sherlock got to where he is now. Hope you're enoying it._**

**_I shall now shut up. On with the update =D_**

**_Chapter warnings for implied drug use and one swearword (if you care about that kind of thing. It's called for, honest)_**

* * *

_Definitely the biggest shock I've ever had in my life. _

I didn't register the thud the book made on the dusty floor as it fell from suddenly stiff fingers. My heartbeat rocketed.

Mum never mentioned my dad. I know the basics of human reproduction, of course, so I knew I had one – he was just never talked about. He was just – implied, I suppose. This image of a strange man from whom we'd heard hide nor hair in almost fourteen years. So I'd formed an impression of him as a selfish bastard. A 'player' as somebody at school has once said, who'd screwed my mum once in a one-night stand, then brushed her aside, refusing to acknowledge his daughter. Someone we were better off without.

Somehow, the truth was exactly as I'd expected it to be, just worse. The image now had a face, with high cheekbones and strange, strange eyes. The face of someone whose intellect scared me as much as intrigued me. The face of Sherlock Holmes.

I couldn't process it, until the box that I'd filed away gave an annoying rattle and I realised what had been nagging at me. He was familiar. Looking at him had been a little like looking in a mirror. My high cheekbones. My lean figure. My whiplash way with words. My hair was my mum's colouring – a dark chocolate brown – but the way it curled could only have come from him.

That was the final nail in the coffin.

Someone touched my shoulder. I yelped and realised I'd been frozen to the spot for the best part of five minutes while my brain tried to sort through this sudden new development in my life.

John was standing there, looking concerned. "Evie? You okay?"

For a second I just wanted to blurt out the whole story, but checked myself. Much as I respected John, I knew I had to talk to Sherlock first, and bugger me if that wasn't going to be awkward. If he even believed me.

"Yeah…sorry, just being clumsy." I bent and retrieved the diary – I would need it if I was to convince Sherlock of the truth. But something told me that wasn't all the date had meant. Mum had never so much as mentioned him, and she wouldn't send me out to find my father on a whim even if she was running away. There must be something more to it.

I flipped back to the pages she had indicated. As I turned to the middle of December a second piece of paper fluttered out. This note was fuller.

_My dearest Evie. _

_ By now you've found Sherlock, and I hope the truth won't be too difficult for you to wrap your head around. You get all that brain from him, my love. _

_ I have to go underground – deep underground – possibly for a very long time. Years, even, because I came across something I shouldn't have, when a client came to me asking for help with her husband's Will. All I can give you is his name – Percy Trevelyan, CEO of Trevelyan Enterprises. He had some information in his possession which CANNOT fall into the wrong hands – trust me when I say that many influential people would quite happily kill to have this. To the right buyer it's worth billions. I'm so sorry I can't explain everything more fully. When they say knowledge is power, they don't tell you it's also lethal. It was stolen. I know who by, but I have no proof, and he's after me. The info is Safe. I need Sherlock – I've been following his work and I know he's the only person who can help me. _

_ I love you, Evie. God keep you safe until we meet again. _

_ Irene Adler. _

* * *

The letter was almost detached. A goodbye note. I knew then I'd never see my mother again.

Evie Adler doesn't cry, but not even I could stop the wetness brushing at the corners of my eyes.

I'd forgotten John was still in the room until a strong hand settled on my shoulder. He'd obviously seen part of the note over my shoulder, or at least guessed at its meaning.

"I'll…I go grab your stuff if you need a minute…" he said quietly. His footsteps faded as he left the room. I appreciated the gesture.

Besides, Mum had given me one more clue. I know where she wanted me to go next.

* * *

Our safe is under the stairs. There's a sliding panel at the back of the cupboard that Mum had installed when she first bought the place, and the safe itself is protected by a combination lock. I didn't even have to think what the code was, though she'd never told me. 6 digits. No spaces. I punched it in.

_101294. _The date of my conception. The numbers written on the back of Mum's first note had served a dual purpose.

_Beep. _The catch jumped open. At first I thought it was empty, then I realised something was shoved to the back. A small leather case. And inside was a handheld smartphone. PIN-locked, obviously. And whatever info these fat-cats or whoever were so desperate to get their hands on was obviously stored on the phone.

"Evie?" It was John, my suitcase in hand. "You ready?"

"…Yeah." Even so, it took two deep breaths before I could move. I had a lot of explaining to do, to the most difficult man I had ever met.

_This is going to be hilarious_.

* * *

Back at 221B Mrs Hudson had made up a camp-bed in her small kitchen that I quite cheerfully dumped my hefty suitcase on, praising the gods of sanity that John had had the sense to hail a cab. I was not getting back on a tube train.

Besides, it had given me time to think over what I was going to say. Mum's new note and old diary were burning a hole in my pocket.

_You don't just walk up to a guy and tell him he's a father. He'll think you've been playing him. Just show him the diary…tell him you worked it out…_

_Shit. _I don't usually curse and I'm not normally terrified to the point where even my old 'evaluate' trick isn't going to work. But I'd brought myself up into the mindset that 'every problem has a solution,' and I also know I couldn't stall the inevitable.

* * *

The strains of the violin had long since stopped bleeding through the slight crack in the door. Poised on the darkened landing, I peered inside. Sherlock's head was about all I could see of him as he lay sprawled across the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin and his brow drawn down in thought.

Deciding I would get no answer if I knocked, I simply pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Holmes lay on the couch, two nicotine patches stuck fast to his inner elbow. For a second I felt furious. _Switching one form of drugs for another. Meet my father, ladies and gentlemen. _I was still having a lot of trouble believing it.

He didn't even open his eyes. "What have you got for me?"

"I…" The words seemed to stick in my throat. "I found out what the…date was."

He opened one eye.

"My mum…she kept diaries all the way through school and…uni….and stuff." _Well this is awkward._ Mentally I told myself to stop being such a child. "Christmas 1994, she was in her final year at Cambridge."

Holmes opened the other eye. "What, is that it? Just an ordinary date, nothing else?"

"Well give me a chance and I'll explain!" I said hotly. Fumbling in my pocket, I brought out Mum's second note and passed it to him. "This was tucked into the pages. The information she's referring to was in the safe, and the combination was also the code she gave me…us…on the first note, it had a dual purpose." _Evelyn, you're babbling, shut up. _

Holmes glanced up from scanning the note. "What was it?"

I pulled out the smartphone. "I don't know. She didn't give me the PIN and I shan't try and guess it. It's probably one of those 'get it wrong once and it blows up' things."

Holmes turned the phone over in his hand a couple of times. "No way of guessing the code, she's too smart to set it as anything even remotely obvious. More likely one of an infinite combination of random numbers. But why the treasure hunt…what has she got on here as well as whatever this Trevelyan character gave her…"

He appeared to be talking to himself now, and I realised I couldn't tell him. The moment wasn't right. The words stuck in my throat, my hands clutched at the diary entry. All I had to do was say, 'Look, there was something else as well.' But I couldn't do it.

John materialised in the kitchen doorway and put the kettle on. I left Holmes to his muttering and went over to him.

"Tea?"

"Oh, please."

* * *

We lapsed into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rumble of the kettle and the clink of the mugs. I watched Sherlock gab a laptop from a nearby table and flip it up, fingers tapping impossibly fast over the keys. I'm the opposite. Most of what I do on a computer involves typing up the odd school assignment, and only if necessary. I'm way more of a book, pen and paper sort of girl. Sherlock, however, was obviously very IT literate - from the eye-roll John gave him and the mutter of 'every bloody time.' I gathered Sherlock had just hacked his laptop, and that is was a fairly regular occurrence.

"So what was all that about with the diary?" John asked.

"Mm?"

"Was it just the note in the diary, or was there something particular about that date?"

"The date was also the combination on the safe. It made sense to hide it there," I muttered. But John wasn't a doctor for nothing, it seemed. When I turned to look at him, he was regarding me with an 'I know you're not being truthful' face that reminded me of Mum's when I'd lied about a particularly bad bullying day.

But if I couldn't tell Sherlock, I couldn't tell John. I still wanted him to know first.

"Evie?"

"I…I can't. Not yet." And I fled, abandoning the tea.

I never saw John's eyes, and the grey-blue ones of the man on the sofa, follow me out of the door.

* * *

_They called it 'blow.' They called it 'charlie.' Mixed with heroin, they called it 'dynamite,' and it certainly blew many of them away. They called it 'good shit' and 'my Peruvian Marching Powder.' They called it 'an awful habit,' 'a dangerous addiction.' 'A killer.' Sherlock called it clarity. The key to his mental block, put in place by so many teachers over so many years. Under its influence, the sixteen-year old felt pure stimulation fly through his veins in a way nothing else could match._

_He could only imagine what Mycroft would say. But he hadn't heard from Mycroft in years. He had just graduated from Oxford and had been awarded a prestigious junior position in the British Government. Sherlock had little doubt that one day - one day soon – he would be the British Government. As such, he had obviously had no further time for his younger brother, instead basking in the pride of his parents. The brother who lived up to the fine name of 'Holmes.'_

_So Sherlock cared very little for what either his parents, or his brother, would think about how he really spent his evenings and weekends, once his work was finished and there was nothing to do. Banned from the chemistry labs after an ill-advised experiment had resulted in one of the biggest explosions the school had ever seen, and having read everything interesting the library had to offer, Sherlock chafed at the boredom. His mind was like a coiled spring – all wound up and nowhere to go. Even cigarettes had lost their charm…and their effect. He craved something stronger. Something –or someone - that would take away the annoyance of being so bored._

_That someone was Isa Whitney._

_Wealthy parents, obviously. Kept his nose clean at school, for the most part flew under the radar. Average grades, average looks, average guy. Except Sherlock knew, through both deduction and a little on-the-side sleuthing (which he had begun to really enjoy), what the 'ordinary private school boy' exterior hid._

_Isa Whitney was a drug addict._

_Sherlock had followed him down many a back alley in the town close to the school, been witness to enough small – time trades to turn him in a hundred times over, but he had bided his time. He had no intention of turning Isa in. On the contrary, he wanted to try a very different sort of experiment to his usual antics._

_Sherlock cornered Isa in the library after school one day._

_"I know what you are."_

_Pure fear flashed in the scrawny boy's eyes. "Please," he spluttered pitifully, "Don't turn me in, it was my brother got me into them, I swear, I haven't done anyone any harm…"_

_"Calm down for heaven's sake." **Moron.** "I'm not going to turn you in. I want to know where you get them from."_

_"Get…what?"_

_Sherlock sighed. **Humans are strange**. "I want to know who sells you the drugs."_

_"So you can turn them in instead? Please. Like I'd tell you."_

_Sherlock lost patience. He leaned in._

_"Listen to me. If I wanted to turn both you and them in, I'dve done it by now. I have enough evidence on you and your shady dealings to bang you up for a fair period. I want…I want some for myself, moron. Why else do you think I'd come to you?"_

_"You could find them yourself," The boy pointed out._

_Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. "I was hoping you could introduce us."_

_Isa narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "What's in it for me?"_

_"I don't turn you in for possession. You can continue nursing your…habit…and I'll never bother you again."_

_Isa regarded the lanky boy with too much dark, curly hair for a second, then held out his hand._

_"Deal."_

_At sixteen, Sherlock took cocaine a couple of times a month to alleviate his boredom pangs._

_By age eighteen, the age he attained Cambridge with four top-grade A-Levels, the age he met Irene Adler and unknowingly conceived his daughter, he was shooting up every couple of days._

_His family remained blissfully oblivious until age twenty-one._


	6. Evelyn Adler, Aspiring Detective

**_Oh my GOD that was a loooooong period of writers block. Thank you exams, screw you very much. Anyway, I'm back with a new chapter and I am SORRY I kept you guys waiting for so long, I feel like a horrible person. But now the plot bunnies are amassing again and...well, this kind of happened. Evie needs to be a spy when she grows up. Like Tash Romanov (I'm on a bit of an Avengers jag rn, being currently savanged by the plot bunnies for that, keep your eyes open). _**

**_Anyway, without further ado, or apologies, here is your long overdue update. Warning for a lot of artistic licence employed, blood/gory crime scenes , corruption of a 13 year old, and allusions of rape and hate crimes. My mind is twisted like that. _**

**_The usual disclaimer, I own nothing but the brilliant Evie. Poor thing. _**

* * *

_Just when I thought today couldn't get any worse…_

I caught my breath on the landing, chiding myself for being such a coward. The door was still ajar and I caught Sherlock's next words as I stood just outside.

"What's the matter with her?"

"What makes you think I know?"

"You've been 'looking after her' or whatever with Mrs Hudson, surely even you must have noticed something."

John muttered something that sounded like 'Thanks a lot.' There was a soft flump as her settled himself in his armchair.

"There was something actually…when she first read the diary entry, she looked as though she'd seen a ghost. She wouldn't show it to me, just went straight down to the safe and got the phone out."

"Hmm." From my vantage point through the crack in the door, I saw Holmes' hand flip the phone lazily, obviously thinking.

"Percy Trevelyan was a big fish when it came to business and corporations. He had his fingers in everything from accounting to security. It's entirely likely that in these dealings something shady come up."

"And you think this girl's mother might have found something?"

"She's a lawyer, of course she's turned up something, probably unintentionally. If it was intentional she'd have sold it on or been paid for it."

I clenched my fists. _Mum's not like that._

"The question is why she would be dealing with Trevelyan at all. Adler and Norton Solicitors are strictly small time, not quite in the same league."

"Maybe…he wanted to go smaller, so he could investigate more easily."

"Thought had occurred. But I can't do anything without more data. What else do you think the girl knows?"

"Sherlock." John's voice took on a more authoritative tone, no doubt a remnant of his army days. "She's a teenager, and she's scared. She's come to you for help. Don't just use her as a pump for information."

"If she knows something…"

"Then she wouldn't be this scared."

"John, there's something about her I can't quite put my finger on." Sherlock sprang off the couch and started to pace. "She deduced your former occupation – "

"Yeah, well she wouldn't be the first," came the muttered, disgruntled response.

"Like me, John, exactly. Then there's the way she's put together her mother's clues. In fact any normal teenager would panic and run to an uncle, or a grandmother, or one of her schoolmates, not to a consulting detective she's never heard of on the advice of her mother. They'd hide and let the grown-ups sort it out. Evelyn's different…but _why?"_

John said nothing. I slumped against the wall, trying to breathe. Mum had gotten herself wrapped up in something big. Something huge, connected to one of the most powerful corporations in Europe.

Sherlock was right, we needed more data.

* * *

The quiet in 221B was broken suddenly by a knock at the door. Sherlock, from inside the living room, groaned.

"Go away Lestrade…I have enough to do for once, rather than solve your stupid 'locked-room murder' cases.

"Sherlock…" said John warningly, but at the moment there were feet on the stairs. I leapt up a few into the shadows of the next landing. The sliver haired man that banged past me and into the living room never noticed.

"Could have called first," said Sherlock rudely.

"Yeah, but I figured I'd call in person since the scene's just around the corner." The man had a strong South London accent that would command the respect of a lesser man. "Young couple found dead, doors locked from the inside, window catches fastened before you ask."

"Anderson around?"

"_Sherlock_…" said two voices – one a tone of warning, the other of exasperation.

"Give me two minutes. What's the address?"

It was only two streets away. The silver haired man – Lestrade, I assumed – clattered away again. The sounds in the sitting room now were those of the occupants getting ready to go out.

I knew Sherlock was a 'consulting detective' (whatever the hell one of those was) since he'd mentioned it himself not two minutes ago. I didn't realise he consulted with the police. Which made no sense – the police didn't go to amateurs…_But clearly they do go to this one._ I realised Holmes must be more intelligent than I'd given him credit for. Either that or the Detective Inspector was calling in favours. He had been a junkie after all.

Intrigued nonetheless, I poked my head through the still open door and tried not to make it too obvious that I'd been listening in. "Where are you two going?"

"Crime scene. There's been a double murder." Holmes now sported a ridiculously long trench-coat and a scarf. John was fumbling with the inside-out sleeves of his more sensible black jacket. He threw his flatmate a look.

"We shouldn't be long," he said. "I think Mrs Hudson is still in if you want some company."

My next words surprised even me. "I want to come with you."

Holmes just gave a derisive snort. John looked a little more sympathetic. "Look, Evie, you're 13. This isn't something you want to see."

But I did want to see. This man – Holmes – was my father. I wanted to know more about what he did and whether he could really help me find Mum. Anything was better than sitting around waiting for something to happen anyway.

_Hold on Evelyn, you're asking to go and look at a real-life crime scene. _

"I'm sharp," I said, "Maybe I could…I dunno…help?" Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't going to work.

"One companion is enough. Lestrade wouldn't let you anywhere near it anyway." Holmes' eyes were cold. "We shouldn't be more than an hour. Put the telly on, or whatever it is you teenagers do these days." With that, he swirled out of the flat in a rush of coat. John shot me an apologetic look and strode after him.

* * *

The flat was too quiet once they'd gone. I was starting to hate the quiet of an empty house. First my own, now this…strange place that I already felt comfortable in. Maybe it was the décor.

Mrs Hudson wasn't in – she'd left a note for me on the kitchen fridge saying shed gone to the shops. It reminded me with a pang of all the little letters Mum left – _gone to get groceries, will be working late, Godfrey coming round for supper, please take the chicken out of the oven when the timer goes. _And so on.

Then I recalled the address of the crime scene – just around the corner if my rather rudimentary mental map was accurate. Pulling on my jacket, I left the flat, only recalling after the door was shut that I didn't have a key. Then again, if I played it right, I'd be coming home with the boys.

* * *

The front of the house was criss-crossed with police tape and there were two squad cars sitting outside. It was terraced, like so many were in the city centre, so there were no side alleys, but the street was fairly quiet so it was entirely possible that somebody had climbed up the side. He'd have to be a monkey but there was a drainpipe right next the window of the bedroom, where the couple had been found – I knew this because I recognised the silhouettes moving behind the net curtains. Sherlock's lanky profile stood out, as did the silver haired man. Loud noises were coming from it – I assumed they were arguing over something, also that it wasn't exactly a rare occurrence.

And yet, Lestrade had said the latches were fastened from the inside…

_Every problem has a solution. Evaluate._

Inwardly I grinned to myself. Evelyn Adler, 13 years old, aspiring crime fighter. Three days ago, I would have laughed, long. And hard. But I had an itch now. And I knew I just had to get a closer look at that window hatch.

Mindful of the squaddies, plus the hordes of people I figured would be lurking inside, I skipped over the next-door neighbour's low wall, then climbed the fence separating the two.

I risked a glance over the small box hedge at the policemen in the cars. They appeared to be too absorbed in their conversation to be playing a lot of attention. But I had to freeze as a sudden movement heralded the exit of a couple of forensic officers who headed straight to their van with a few clear plastic evidence bags. They returned a few moments later, only to be succeeded by a couple more officers.

It seemed there was almost a constant flow of traffic around the house. No way in through the front door.

_Evaluate, Evie. _My palms were starting to sweat. I felt like a burglar and for a split second wondered what I was doing. I glanced upwards, towards the window. _No way in through the front door…but the way the murderer must have taken is still open. _

There were small scuff marks in the ground around the base of the drainpipe, and I could see that some of the supports had been almost pulled away from the wall. I was right then – he had entered this way. A man, judging by the weight those screws seemed to have been under.

Steeling myself – I had never climbed anything more imaginative than a tree or two in Hyde Park – I gripped the black piping and began to haul myself up it. My Converse gripped the gravelly wall with difficulty, and I was grateful that the supports provided the footholds at very wide intervals.

I could hear voices below, telling me to 'Get down you stupid girl, don't you know this is a crime scene, what are you playing at!' but ignored them. I had to. If I looked down I'd lose my nerve – or equally as bad, my balance.

I reached the window. I could hear Sherlock's voice inside, saying something loudly about coming in through the door and having spare keys made and whatnot. I glanced at the sill – there it was, on the outside. Small scratches. I had to peer to see them, indicating that a knife had potentially been dragged along it. I was theorising wildly by this point, but this house, as with many houses in the area, still had the old fashioned window latches that twisted, as opposed to the modern PVC handles. Willing my balance to hold, I leaned precariously closer to the latch – there! Tiny scrapings of white paint on the sill inside from the knife. Smallish blade – must have been, to be out of the way while the drainpipe was scaled.

* * *

At that second there was a bang on the window. I looked up, startled, and nearly slipped off the bloody piping, which had become sweaty beneath the death grip my palms had on it – but it was only Lestrade, looking decidedly pissed off.

I knew I was about to 'get a new one torn', as someone in a film had once said (I think). The window scraped open.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing?" he almost snarled. I got the impression of a silver wolf.

"Evie?" Behind him floated John, looking less cross and more confused. I couldn't see Sherlock.

"Stand back a sec…" I took a deep breath, and stepped off the drainpipe and onto the outer windowsill. Before I could overbalance I grabbed the edge of the window and swung – with difficulty – inside, trying not to dislodge the paint shavings as I went. Only then, when I was back on solid ground, did I breathe out and relax. "That's how he got in."

I turned around and saw Sherlock, standing by the nightstand. He was watching me with an expression that can only be described as curious as well as calculating.

"How can you tell?"

"There are marks on the outside of the windowsill where it's been scratched, probably by a knife. The window has a latch that can be opened from the outside using a knife."

"Look, kid, I don't know how old you are, but you can't just barge into a crime scene like this, and you're too young to know anything about-" the tall DI spluttered.

"For your information, I watch television, I''ve got a pretty good idea how these things can work. And I'm 13, thanks for asking nicely," I snapped back. I turned again to Sherlock. "You think he came in through the door and hid under the bed, right? Wrong. Look at the outside of the sill, he got in that way. He may have made a spare key and exited through the door, but he got in originally through the window."

John and the DI just stared at me in disbelief. Sherlock's expression did not change – he simply walked over to the window and whipped out a small, collapsible magnifying glass. Silence reigned as he examined the windowsill.

It was then that the stench of blood, disturbed by the breeze coming through the open window, hit my nose. _Don't turn around, Evelyn. Don't turn around…_

The magnifying glass snapped shut. "She's right," said Sherlock shortly, before sweeping out of the room in a dignified manner. I could tell he was pissed. The flash of triumph and surprise (to be honest, I hadn't expected to be completely right) was dulled a little by the coppery smell assaulting my nose.

The two men left in the room were quiet for a second. "Well that got up his nose," said John after a second, looking at me queerly. I could tell he was piecing it all together, slowly but surely.

I turned away. Big mistake.

Lestrade started talking about the changes this made to the case – the killer's height, weight, agility, MO, relation to victims, but I'd stopped listening. I'd noticed the bodies.

They were young. Two young women. One's throat was slashed raggedly across her jugular. She lay bathed in a pool of mostly her own blood, but some of her partner's too. Her hands were tied. She was lying prone, at right angles to the other, her dark hair matted, a knife still sticking obscenely up and out of her chest. My traitorously sharp eyes registered the position of her body – legs spread, arms flung up by her head, bruises on her thighs where her nightdress had rucked up and more on her wrists. Raped while her lover watched.

There is something so terrifying about looking at a real dead body. Some deep seated instinct that makes you want to run and hide from the awful truth. Something deeply unsettling about the sight of the vessel, vital spark flown. To see them arranged like this, to know what was done to them before death was dealt, like a release, is a thousand times worse.

"Hate crime," I whispered, appalled.

"We think so, yes," murmured John. I hadn't heard him come up behind me.

"Come on," he said gently as I stood frozen, as if speaking to a new recruit faced with the possibility of death for the first time, "Let's go back and let Sherlock get over his sulk."

I nodded numbly and let him steer me towards the stairs. Processing the deeper truth. _This is what your dad does for a living Evie. With a smile upon his face, just so many corpses. Is he used to this? How do you get used to this?_

Also that me and my life had both changed irrevocably now.

_Hell of a day this turned out to be._

* * *

_Inspector Gregson of Cambridge PD wasn't used to being shown up, least of all by a scruffy 18 year old first year student who had appeared out of nowhere at midnight at a murder scene in definitely one of the less well-off areas of Cambridge town._

_He'd appeared out of nowhere, a lanky youth with a head of scruffy curls and a long coat that looked as though it had spent more than one night in a skip. It was difficult to see in the dark but he looked slightly high._

_"You won't find your answers on the ground," he'd said in a musical voice. Then he pointed up towards the fire escape. "There are still bits of fabric attached to the railings where he went over. You're looking for a large, strong man with martial arts training to be able to combat a black belt in Jiu Jitsu like that."_

_Gregson had just stared at him. "How did you know that?"_

_The boy smiled. "I observed. Her gym bag has the logo of her group on it. Plus, judging by the keys gripped in her right hand, she was taking the back way into her apartment. He probably followed her home from training. You want answers, start at the fire escape. Work back to her gym."_

_Gregson lost the ability to talk for a moment. The best he came up with was, "Who are you?"_

_The boy turned to leave. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm the boy who just solved your case."_

_And he had. The security cameras at the woman's gym had picked up the man peeling away from a pillar and following her out of the parking lot. It was simply a matter of showing the footage of the man to the receptionist, who identified him immediately. He was once a member of the martial arts group and in custody before the end of the next day._

_And it wasn't a one off thing. More than once the Inspector would spy the boy at the edges of one crime or another, but only the most interesting cases. Sometimes he would only stay for a minute or so before moving away. Other times he would approach and give his opinion. Where the boy got his mobile number from, Gregson never found out, but on occasion he would even receive a text with a location on it, where he would find Sherlock, out of breath and often bruised, with a semi-unconscious perpetrator at his feet. He was rarely wrong, and always annoyed when he was. "There's always something," he would mutter, before swishing away._

_It was aggravating, but Gregson almost didn't mind. He learned much from watching how the teen observed a crime scene objectively. Of course he had no protocols to follow, no 'accepted way of doing things' that any deviation from required a lengthy period of justification followed by a reprimand._

_In helping him and his collegues - or as he would term in, setting them straight - Sherlock found a break from crippling boredom, but interesting cases rarely came along with any degree of regularity. Thus he came to rely more and more on the cocaine as a distraction._

_It wasn't any surprise that Gregson found him, lying in a dirty alleyway after a bad hit. It wasn't his fault that Sherlock had had to find a different dealer since his usual had been caught about two weeks prior. In fact, he was lucky the inspector had been there._

_But Sherlock always blamed him. For the call to his parents out of the country, as usual), for the summoning of Mycroft, for the months spent in rehabilitation under his eagle gaze._

_However, he was also grateful. He had seen first hand the red tape the police were tied up in. He had experience of going around it, of acting outside the force to catch the criminal. He had spent years honing and practicing his own highly effective methods and he intended to use them, though not working for the police. Working with them, perhaps, but never for them._

_'Consulting detective,' he though, as he stared at the walls of his university room. 'That has a nice ring. Sherlock Holmes – the world first and only Consulting Detective.'_

* * *

**_I know next to nothing about grading in jiu jitsu, or any martial art come to that, or anything about how crime scenes are run. Like I said, artistic licence has been employed, don't flame pleeeeeease. However, reviews are most appreciated =D Peace out peeps xx_**


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